I held onto the sink like it was the only thing keeping me sane.
I held onto the sink so tight my fingers were in pain.
And I griped onto it like it was the only thing keeping me in my reality, sanity.
Because I knew that as long as it felt real my mind would stop this fight-or-flight mode.
But then I looked up into the mirror and I couldn't recognize myself, was that me? Is that real? Is this another bad dream?
FINGERS, COUNT YOUR FINGERS, IN DREAMS YOU ALWAYS HAVE MORE FINGERS.
But the sink. I CAN'T LET GO OF THE SINK.
Why is there blood in the sink? Why is there blood on the floor? When did this happen? when did I slit my wrists? I SWEAR I WAS HOLDING ONTO THE SINK.
Breathe.
Count 1,2,3
Breathe.
1,2,3
I can breathe
But my wrists, my wrists were untouched
But the blood, there was still blood in the sink
And I couldn't do anything but pray that it is ink.
Mom, please, tell me it is just ink.
YOU ARE READING
Here's all the Pain you Caused.
PoetryIf you're looking for beauty, go elsewhere. There's nothing beautiful about breaking ribs and dizzy little heads.
